


It's the Colors You Have (That's Life We Call It)

by thispieceofmind



Series: it's the colors, i see them in your eyes [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bassist!Harry, Depression, Indie!Harry, M/M, Overstimulation, RadioShowHost!Louis, blowjob, depressed!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispieceofmind/pseuds/thispieceofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s touring, and the colors are playing tricks on his eyes.</p>
<p><i>"Harry had not had the heart nor the energy to turn on the lights that make the room seem to glow, and in his eyes the quotes and art on the wall seemed colorless. Lifeless. Louis asks if he wanted him to do it. Harry says no. He does not want to see something that is not even </i>alive<i> shine brighter than him."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the Colors You Have (That's Life We Call It)

Harry thinks it’s a shame, that blue is the opposite of red. Because blue is such a lovely color, but it’s most often associated with sorrow, much like grey, which is often linked with blue itself. But then again, red is not only fervor and heat, it is also anger and rage. And blue is rebirth and renewal and compassion. So, Harry thinks, colors are complicated. A good kind of complicated. The kind that makes him think. He likes it. And while he might be red, he's also a lot of other things, too. For instance, take purple. It’s a mix of blue and red, but it is neither sadness nor anger. It is not anything that those colors are. Purple is the color of imagination and spirituality. Harry thinks that he’s a lot of purple, too.  


And Harry’s noticed, that there are a lot more colors that just one, in people. Louis has shown him that. He’s shown him that there are lights and darks and different shades and hues in everyone. He thinks that Louis has helped him know himself. Louis has helped him find the color in himself, and the passion, and the little crevices in his heart and in the corners in his mind. He feels newer. He feels more like himself. He feels very, very alive. He feels passionate.  


He feels more red than ever.  


***  


Right now, there’s a lot, a lot of orange in front of him. Literally. There’s an old, crusty, beautiful RV before his eyes, and the bumper is covered with stickers, and there’s still room for more. The Volkswagon symbol on the front is shiny as ever, and there’s a peace sign sticker on the window. The inside has four bunk beds and there are a driver’s and a shotgun seat. It’s worn and has a stereo system with bass that blasts through the whole van and makes his body shake a little, like when he’s on stage. Harry thinks it’s perfect.  


“Liam, where the bloody hell did you find this?” he exclaims, and it’s in the lot of his and Nate’s flat, and Harry’s gone a bit bug eyed, so Liam pulls the keys out after switching off the engine, and the radio that was playing their EP shuts down. Zayn molds into his side as soon as he’s out of the car, and the faintest of smiles appears on Nate’s face.  


“Well...” Liam starts, and he’s got this giddy smile on his face that looks like it’s about to split his cheeks in half, and he takes a deep breath. “You guys know you’ve been doing so well and stuff with the shows and well, yeah, but um, Harry I know you’ve got no car, and the old van was about to die anyway, so I figured that this old beauty would be the perfect way to get around for your three week tour around England!”  


“Our what?” Nate says, and his jaw has dropped in that comical way where if he was in a cartoon it’d be brushing the floor.  


“Sorry?” Harry says at the same time, and Zayn’s saying nothing, he’s just wearing this huge, euphoric grin and squeezing Liam’s hip because he’s probably in on this already. Perks of having a manager boyfriend, he guesses.  


“It’s not much, honest,” Liam starts, as modest as ever, “but I’ve been toying around with dates for the past two weeks, and well– guys, people have _heard_ of you. You know that Radio One is a big deal, and I called up some pubs and bars and, I dunno, smaller concert halls where you can play gigs, and I’ve got you 17 shows over the course of three weeks, and it’s a loop, starting in London, and around to loads of places, and well– yeah.” He smiles big. “Surprise?” he says weakly.  


And Zayn pounces on him, reeling him in by the waist and kissing him flat on the mouth, and soon Harry and Nate can’t resist, and they love to piss them off as well, so they wrap their arms around them in a big group hug and say _thank you thank you thank you_ over and over again, because Liam’s a fucking great manager, they’ve got a RV, and they’re _touring_.  


***  


Harry calls Louis straight after, and he’s already on his way, really, and he tells him everything. Louis shines like pure gold when he hears the news, and when Harry sees him he kisses him hard and tells him that he’s gorgeous, because Louis has this smile on where he glistens like the dew drops on petals of roses after a sunshower and the light catches just right and everything just seems to glow.  


“I’ll miss you, y’know,” Louis says, and he’s teasing but serious.  


“I’ll miss you, too. But hey, I’ll text you and call you and maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll listen in on some shows even if they require me to wake up at the arse crack of dawn.”  


Louis snorts and leans back on Harry’s bed where they’re just sitting, talking. He pushes his head onto Harry’s shoulder to nose at his jaw. “Arse crack?” he asks.  


“Yeah. And not the good kind. You’ve got a nice arse crack,” Harry mutters, and he’s trying to make amends but it’s really not working.  


“Honey,” Louis starts, and it’s not a sweet honey, it’s mocking. Harry frowns. “That was not good flirting technique.”  


Harry pouts. “Can I just kiss you instead?”  


“I suppose,” Louis smirks, so Harry crawls onto his lap and kisses him until he can practically see the stars that are glowing on the ceiling of their warehouse across town.  


***  


They decide to sort of to a “christening” to the van, so they get a case of beer and park the RV in the back parking lot because not as many people are there and they pop open the trunk to the crisp May’s air and basically tailgate in the back lot of Harry and Nate’s flat building. They blast music from the speakers, and it’s a mix of weird indie and the Weeknd and old R&B for Zayn’s sake, because it’s his guilty pleasure. Louis invites Niall over, and Harry’s happy about it. He likes Niall, or what he’s seen of him when he’s not running off. He’s loud and slap happy all the time and wears a nice smile. Harry has always liked seeing people smile.  


They’re very aware that they’re being loud and irritating, but the people in Harry and Nate’s building have accustomed to the fact that they’re rather boisterous and live life to the fullest, and they even get a couple hoots of happiness from one of the open windows from the floors above. Life is bright. Harry feels pretty bright too, especially when Louis comes up from behind him and wraps his arms around his stomach, standing on his tiptoes to press a kiss behind his ear. He feels like he’s floating – he doesn’t remember euphoria like this. Because despite the thrill he gets when he’s performing, he’s always thought about it a little like getting high. There’s the thrill right before you do it, the blissed out giddiness of when you’re doing it, and the dull emptiness when it’s gone. And maybe he wouldn’t have felt like that if he had Louis. He wonders if what it’s going to be like on tour.  


But he pushes the thought aside. They still have a week until they leave, he’s got a beer in his hand, and he’s turning in Louis’ arms so he can kiss him, and all of his worries go away.  


***  


Niall leaves first, off to somewhere that they don’t know, but Harry doesn’t mind. He remembers how Louis told him that he’s always on the run. Zayn and Liam leave next, and they’re making eyes at each other, so everyone knows that Zayn’s about to get fucked, especially since they’re pretty tipsy and not holding back. Nate rolls his eyes once they’re gone and says he’ll head up to his and Harry’s flat, but departs with a loud, “You’re not fucking while I’m home!”  


Louis snorts as Harry narrows his eyes. “No promises!” Louis singsongs back, and Harry lets out a hearty laugh, resting his head on Louis’ shoulder where they sit on the edge of the van where the door is open. They turned the radio off a while ago, not wanting the battery to die, and it’s peaceful now. Quiet. Their breath still comes out warm against the cool, spring air, and Harry presses further into Louis side when a chill runs through him. Louis smiles at him and runs a gentle hand through his hair, making a sigh leave his body and a gentle upturn of the lips appear on his face. “This was fun, yeah?”  


“Very,” Harry agrees, and he’s tired now. It’s probably past midnight, but Louis is still buzzing like always seems to be. He’s still petting Harry’s hair, and it’s not helping him with the sleepiness. He presses a kiss to his temple. He thinks Louis can see his fatigue, so they just sit there for a while. He’s not sure how long. His head is on Louis’ shoulder and their breathing is almost aligned but not quite, and they can’t see any stars because it’s London and there’s never stars in London, but sometimes when he looks at Louis he thinks he might see some. They can make their own constellations.  


After that while that they don’t know the time of, Louis asks if Harry if he wants to go inside, and Louis has been staying over a lot and leaving in the mornings with a cute note scrawled out in his messy script because he has work, but it’s Saturday and Louis has nowhere to go and Harry doesn’t want to go inside yet. He shakes his head, and Louis says okay, so they sit a while longer. Harry’s not all that sure what he thinks about because he’s so jumbled. He still hasn’t organized himself all the way. He still feels a little bit lost but Louis has been a beacon since he’s met him, and at first he was just a light that he was guided to, but now he’s front and center.  


It’s been three weeks since Louis approached him at the bar, and two weeks since Louis told him he was beautiful and fucked him into the mattress. He hasn’t cried in two weeks. He wonders when he’s going it’s going to start happening again. He trusts Louis though, he does. Because he sees the way he smiles at him, and that genuine sound in his voice hasn’t left. He sees stars in Louis eyes, and he hasn’t seen the stars since he moved to London. So he thinks a little more, and he thinks about the tour. It’s little. He knows that. Seventeen shows is something he can handle, but he’s going to be away from the light and out of his sunshine, and he wonders how long it will be until he cries.  


Harry cries only when he means it.  


He presses a kiss to Louis’ neck when he doesn’t want to think anymore, and Louis smiles down at him, taking his hand where it’s still threaded in his hair, and tugs his head lightly to kiss him. It’s long and slow, and Harry lets himself be kissed with his mouth open, and Louis’ tongue pushing past his lips and curling against his, and his hands are still carding through Harry’s hair. He lets out a happy sigh when they pull apart, and Louis comes back in to press little opened mouthed kisses against his lips. Harry thinks it’s nice.  


When Louis pulls away with a mischievous glint in his eyes that Harry can now recognize in a flash, he wonders what he could possibly be up to. He leans in close to Harry’s ear, and his hot breath makes a shiver tear through him. “So,” he starts, and his voice is a little lower than usual. Harry’s not sure where he’s going with it. “If Nate said that he doesn’t want us fucking in your flat, how about I just fuck you in that pretty little RV of yours instead?”  
Harry sucks in a breath, but his eyes are droopy still, and he’s only gotten more tired from the lazy kisses they shared. “Tired,” he mumbles into Louis’ neck where his head has dropped.  


Louis scratches his scalp fondly and says back, “Come on then.” He takes Harry’s hand and gets him to stand so they can go inside the van. He shuts the door, and it’s dark. They can maneuver with hands on the soft, worn feelings of the bunks. It’s not completely pitch black, because the lights in the parking lot are still on and it’s illuminating the front seats where the windows can’t be covered by drapes. Louis’ fingers scratch down Harry’s back as he pushes him down onto the bottom bunk, and he can’t see Louis’ features very clearly, but he takes seat right on top of him and gently nudges his head against the pillows. 

“Relax,” Louis breathes. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me–” He rolls his hips down into Harry’s lap, and Harry lets out another breathy sigh.  


“Yeah,” Harry says, “yeah, okay.” Louis smiles softly down at him, fingers curling back into his halo of curls where his head is resting on the pillows. Harry doesn’t think. He just feels. He feels that red of _passion_ as Louis kisses him again, licking into his mouth and tongue curling around his. His hands grip Louis’ waist and run along the band of his pants and push into the dimples at the base of his spine and dip into his jeans to grip his bum.  


“Cheeky,” Louis whispers into his ear as he pulls away. He licks the shell of his ear and kisses down his neck, stopping at a spot on his collarbone that has come to be his favorite. There’s almost always a mark there. He bites down into the skin until the fading bruise is bright red again, little teeth marks surrounding it even though they’ll be gone in minutes. Harry’s getting impatient now, and he bucks up into Louis’ hips, squirming under his touch. “Shh,” Louis says when he whines.  


Harry breathes deep when Louis reaches to pull of his shirt, and then Harry’s. He’s not cold with the heat of Louis’ warm body pressing right against him, and he’s reminded that the red little mark on his collarbone matches just how he feels. _Red_.  


Louis grinds his hips down filthily into Harry’s, and Harry lets out a little moan, tired, but feeling so, so good, his cock pressing up against his jeans, against _Louis_. He tugs Louis by his hair down for another kiss, making their bodies move together for more friction. Louis grips Harry’s bicep, and Harry keeps one hand in his hair and moves the other to trace the span of Louis’ warm back, soft and smooth and comforting. Their hips work in little circles against each other, jerky and unsteady, meeting each other’s movements.  


Their kiss is frantic now, jaws pried too far open and movements too sloppy. Harry doesn’t care though, his hand coming to cup Louis’ jaw, finger thumbing across the sharpness of his cheekbone and running along his stubble. Their mouths are gliding together messily, and Harry’s almost there, he can feel it. Louis breaks their kiss to pant into the junction where Harry’s shoulder meets his neck, and he sucks to keep his mouth occupied. “Fuck,” Harry says.  


“You okay with coming in your jeans?” Louis jokes, and Harry’s _right there_ so he has no idea how Louis’ joking, but he grits out a _shut up_ , and comes with a small cry, hips still jerking, sputtering up into Louis. He sees red. Louis follows after, biting into Harry’s shoulder as he strokes down his back.  


“Fuck,” Harry mutters.  


“Quite the christening,” Louis laughs, still breathless.  


Harry snorts.  
***  


Sometimes Harry wonders what it would be like to see his life in black and white. He thinks, that there would not be much _life_ left in his life. He thinks that there would be no him. He thinks that there would be no Louis, either. They are entirely contrived from color. They _are_ color itself. They are red and blue and green and purple. They are passion and anger and lust and love and greed and imagination. Harry cannot see himself in black and white.  


He writes a song about it. About life in black and white. Harry thinks that as elegant and beautiful black and white are, it is not what make him. It is not what makes anyone.  


So he writes.  


He’s been doing a lot of that, since he’s found Louis. Sometimes, they’ll just sit in the warehouse together after Louis is off work, and Harry will just _write_. He’ll play Bach and listen to the chords that are strummed that ebb through the room, but it’s odd, really. Louis always says so. He doesn’t understand how Harry can possibly write a song while another is playing. Harry doesn’t really get it either. Louis will lean into his side as he writes countless words and scratches lines out and scrawls out notes and strums on his bass when he decides to bring it along. Sometimes he’ll bring his guitar, too, and Louis will goof around with it and play the chords to the three songs he knows before just sitting and listening, because despite Louis’ chatty nature and constant need to _express_ , he’s learned that he quite likes to listen as well.  


Other times, when Harry’s taking a break or nothing’s coming to his mind, they’ll just sit. They’ll listen to music or listen to each other or listen to nothing at all. Louis will lay Harry back and kiss him until he can’t breathe and rub up his arms to feel the soft skin beneath his fingertips, the smoothness of his body. Sometimes the pad of his thumb will run along the two scars that mark the inside of Harry’s wrist where he had foolishly cut, too deep, and Harry will shudder, his eyes floating shut. Louis will kiss up the inside of his arm and to his shoulder and collarbone and up his neck and jaw until any of the tension leaves body, like the moment when you step into a hot bubble bath and suddenly everything that was just on your mind has instantly vanished. Louis makes Harry feel like that.  


***  


He feels bad, but on the night before the tour Harry can hardly bring himself to think about missing Louis while he’s gone. He knows when he’s away that he will, but right now, it was just him and his guitar and knowing that he’s not going to get any sleep tonight. He’s packing, and Louis is folded up all tiny and small on his bed, watching with a fond smile. He’s not really paying attention to what he’s putting into his suitcases, but it’s mostly shitty shirts and button downs and tight jeans that Louis teases him about but says his legs look great in. When he finally finishes, his clothes are in neat, organized stacks in his bags, and he full on _beams_ at Louis before bounding onto the bed, making it squeak as he pushes on Louis’ shoulders and burrowing into his neck. He’s happy. Louis likes seeing him this happy. It’s when he shines the most, he thinks.  


“You excited, babe?” Louis teases, because it’s written all over his face. Harry shoves his shoulder and falls back dramatically onto his pillows, staring up at his empty ceiling wishing that there were stars to look at. He sighs, breathless. Louis lies down next to him and rubs along his arms, staring into his eyes to try to understand what he’s thinking. He wonders if he might know, but he asks to be sure. “What are you thinking?” he whispers, right into Harry’s neck because he knows it’ll make him shiver. He presses into the goosebumps that show up on Harry’s arms as he awaits his answer.  


“Can we go to the warehouse?” Harry asks, and it’s not so much an answer to Louis’ question, but Harry likes the warehouse because it makes him think. He feels surer there. So Louis nods and kisses him softly, taking his hand once they’re standing.  


The warehouse is quiet, when they arrive. And it’s already dark outside because it’s late, and Harry likes to watch the whole place come to life with one flick of a switch. They’ve added a lot more lights, and Harry made more origami. Louis attempted, but ended up with a crumpled ball of paper. Harry kissed him better. They room glows when they walk further in, settling on their special little mattress, Louis unceremoniously plopping into Harry’s lap. “Looks nice,” Harry murmurs.  


“You look nice,” Louis says, and Harry snorts because it’s cheesy and very _Louis_ , and Louis scowls in mock discontent. Harry pecks his cheek to make up for it. “You’re gonna be gone for three weeks,” Louis starts. A grin spreads across his face. “And you’re gonna have so much fucking fun. Sing big for me, okay, Haz?”  


“Always,” Harry smiles. “I was thinking about, you, before.”  


“Oh, were you know?” Louis teases, but it’s playful, light. It doesn’t set Harry off. His voice goes quieter when he says, “Thinking about me, how?”  


“Being away from you,” Harry murmurs. His tone is soft. Louis pets along the insides of his wrists. “I know it’s a bit– it’s a bit lame, but I’ve not cried in a long time, and yeah, that’s because of you. I don’t want to start crying again, y’know, while I’m gone.” He’s looking awkwardly at Louis’ shoulder because he doesn’t want to attempt to meet his eyes. He thinks he sounds stupid. He _knows_ he sounds stupid. And even though he’s never trusted _anyone_ as much as he trusts Louis, there’s that tightening in his throat that lingers because _what if when he leaves, Louis leaves too – leaves him_. He can’t help his mind from going to the worst case scenario. It’s how he’s been wired after countless fears of being abandoned. He hates it. He hates it more than anything.  


“Why would you start crying again, Hazza?” Louis asks, and hearing someone else say it makes Harry’s stomach twist a bit.  


“I don’t want–” He takes a shuddery breath. He knows how immature and distrusting he sounds. “I don’t want you to leave me. Or, or like, replace me, while I’m gone.”  


“Oh, Harry,” Louis says, and Harry _hates_ that. That wretched pity that manages to work its way into people’s voices. That _oh, Harry,_ makes his fists clench. Louis unfurls Harry’s fingers with his own. He brings them up to his lips and presses them there, just waiting until he hears Harry let out the breath that he’s begun to recognize. “I’m not going to leave you,” Louis says after a moment of silence, “or abandon you. I promise. Okay?”  


Harry nods into Louis’ neck. “Okay. I’m sorry I’m so paranoid, I just–”  


“Shh,” Louis murmurs. “You don’t need to apologize. It’s okay. Really.”  


“Okay,” Harry repeats, and he’s tightening his hold around Louis’ waist and laying backward so Louis’ awkwardly on top of Harry’s stomach. Louis laughs lightly and rolls off him, but just so they’re next to each other, watching the lights twinkle in each other’s eyes. Harry trusts a little bit more.  


***  


Harry feels on fire for the first week of tour. He listens in to Louis’ show the first day, but the times after that, he’s so tired that he can’t. Louis gets it. The gigs are his favorite he’s ever played. His bass is smooth in his grip, and he feels red, so, so _red_. He sings his heart out, and only once, a week in, he realizes that there’s no blue eyes in the crowd that he’s singing to. He gets a weird feeling in his stomach, realizing that Louis isn’t there with him, and he realizes that he shouldn’t be so _attached_ after so little time, but he is and there’s nothing he can do about it. He decides he wants to have fun. To distract himself a little – so he doesn’t cry.  


Naturally, after that show he rounds up the lads from the bar straight away, and they’re driving through the night instead of staying at one of their shitty motels, so Harry suggests that they don’t start driving till late and get high. Nate grins and ruffles his hair, and Liam and Zayn just shrug. So they smoke weed in their RV and know that they’re gonna regret it the next day because it smells, but they laugh a lot and eat far too many crisps to be healthy and at one point Harry’s pretty sure that Liam and Zayn start kissing and smoking at the same time, and he sends Louis a text about how beautiful he is, and after he comes down he doesn’t feel like crying anymore.  


The next morning, Louis texts him back with something cheeky about getting high without him, but it’s nice. Good.  


***  


His favorite show is probably near the end. There’s only four days after this one, and this bar is absolutely _raging_. Because even before they go on stage everything seems so _alive_ , like they have this thrum of energy stringing through them and into the others around their bodies. It’s refreshing, to see people so loose and carefree and just happy to be alive. He likes it a lot. They’re even more enthusiastic when Harry steps on stage, bass light in his hands and smile taking up his entire face. The crowd is receptive and brighter than the sun, every color spilling out and making Harry feel like a mirror, reflecting everything that’s shining at him and spitting out an even brighter color. He sings big, just like Louis told him, and when he closes the show and the crowd demands an encore, he looks at his boys and covers Walk the Moon just because he can.  


They party afterwards, and Harry’s still thrumming every color, so he dances with strangers and his friends and lets himself drink a little, and when he goes back to the RV that night he sleeps tight and wakes up bright and early to take the driving shift and listens to Louis’ voice as he moves them to their next stop. He still does not feel like crying. He thinks he likes touring.  


At the last show, admittedly, he does get a little teary-eyed because it was his first time going on tour, and it was with his best mates. But he sings with the passion and fire of a million suns. He thinks of gold, and he thinks of Louis. He definitely feels colorful. His fingers walk along his bass like a stroll on the beach – cool, breezy, and smooth. His guitar is light and comfortable in his hands, and the familiar thrill that runs through his body as his lips brush against the mic make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in the best way possible. He doesn’t know if performing will ever get old. When he says goodnight to the crowd his voice cracks once, but his smile is one of the widest he’s had in all of his life, and he’s happy. He likes happy.  


And he knows he’s in the long haul for the drive home because they’re going back to London _now_ , and they’re only an hour away, but it’s well past midnight. He thinks of the boy that will be folded up on his bed, quite possibly sleeping, and decides to drive. It’s worth it.  


It’s 2:30 when they get back to the city, and Harry is groggy and crusty-eyed, so he lugs his bags upstairs with Nate trailing behind him, guitar case barely brushing against the ground. They’re both exhausted, and Harry’s thankful that Louis left the flat unlocked for them because he knows that he would’ve floundered with the key for at least ten minutes if it wasn’t.  


As predicted, Louis is already asleep when he walks into his room, and he has no energy to even attempt to unpack at all. He just throws off his jeans and shirt and crawls into bed, curling around Louis’ body and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “Haz?” he murmurs, stirring and attempting to lean up with unsteady arms and groggy eyes.  


Harry keeps his hold on him and whispers, “Shh... It’s me, Lou. Go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”  


And that’s all Louis needs for a response because he leans back down against the pillow and snuggles back into Harry’s chest. “M’kay. G’night, Haz.”  


***  


Louis is still asleep when Harry wakes up. He’s a power sleeper, that one. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he wakes up at 4:30 most days, but he’s not even stirred since Harry sat up, and it’s already nearing noon. He looks at his phone first to see a text from Nate from about an hour ago. It says something about him going out for a few hours to run some errands, and it ends with “feel free to fuck.” Harry quite likes that plan. He feels deprived of soft skin and Louis after three weeks.  


He wants to touch Louis without worrying about stirring him, so he decides to just wake him because he’s all fuzzy and golden, and he’s itching to hear the sound of his voice when he first wakes up. He slides back down the bed, so his chest is pressed to Louis’ back and starts laying kisses down his neck. By the time he’s reached his shoulder, Louis is awake and rolling over in Harry’s arms, opening his eyes to expose the oceans with rolling tides and sunlight glinting off of them. His eyelashes cast shadows on his skin, freckles dot his nose and cheeks, and a small, sleepy smile spreads across his face. “Morning, sunshine,” is the first thing he says, and Harry can’t help himself, he has to kiss him. It’s only feather light, but it’s present, and Harry feels warm all over. A pleasant, ebbing turquoise that shows a clear mind that matches Louis’ clear eyes.  


“Morning,” Harry says, and it’s that tone of voice that just _shows_ he’s cheery, a little dimple popping out on his cheek because he can’t fight the smile. “I missed you,” he murmurs, because he can’t think of anything else to say and honestly, he really has missed him.  


“Hush. I missed you more. You were off living the indie dream.”  


Harry blinks and stares back indignantly. “ _The indie dream?_ ”  


“Don’t deny it, Styles. It was the indie dream and you know it.”  


Harry sighs and nuzzles into Louis’ collarbone. “I guess you’re right. It was the dream. It was gone all too fast though.”  


“You’ll tour again,” Louis says, the sunny optimist in him shining through rather than his often brusque, blunt, pessimistic persona. “But now you’re staying here and cuddling me because I was _alone_ for three weeks.”  


“Drama queen,” Harry sighs.  


“I’m afraid not, Harold. That would be your Zayn. He’s got far too much concern for his hair and his drums.”  


“His drums are important!” Harry exclaims.  


“Yeah, yeah,” Louis replies, waving it off. “Now,” he starts, and his voice has gone lower, “I’ve not had sex in nearly a month, so I think I’ll fuck you now.”  


“I–” Harry begins, but Louis is already pinning him down and mouthing at his bare chest, so whatever he was going to say is lost on his lips.  
Louis smothers him. He is everywhere. He trails his lips everywhere on Harry’s body – he sucks marks into his neck and on his collarbones, he kisses all over his face, his eyelids, his cheeks, his tongue pushes past Harry’s mouth, and he breathes him in; he sucks at his nipples and his hipbones. Harry is panting the entire time, wondering how he had gone so long without it, and Louis is warm and bright around him, and the sunlight is soft on their bodies, streaming in through the window. Harry’s tight, really tight after such a long break and Louis stretches him out until he’s whining and fucking back onto his fingers – until he can do nothing else but squirm.  


“Gonna fuck you good,” Louis whispers in his ear, slicking up his cock with one hand, the other trailing down Harry’s body, sweaty and hot, burning like the fire in his heart that flares up whenever Louis’ skin merely touches his.  


“Please,” Harry whines, and his eyes shoot open to see Louis’ flaring blue, “Missed you so much, Lou.”  


“Missed my cock, you mean,” Louis says, chortling. Harry still doesn’t fucking get how he can joke while he’s about to stick his cock up his arse, but he just chokes out something about missing all of him, and then Louis’ is slamming in, holding Harry’s bum flush against his thighs, fingers running up Harry’s smooth, pale sides. A shiver tears up Harry’s spine, and Louis smirks at his reaction, just liking to see the affect he can have on him. Louis is rocking his hips back and forth, and Harry’s ankles are locked behind his back. His hands are still everywhere, petting his head and smoothing his skin and tweaking his nipples. He feels the desire to touch and Harry feels the desire to be touched.  


He starts off slow, more lovingly, but Harry’s whining and desperate because it’s been just as long for him, and he was sharing shitty motel rooms and a van with three other lads. Louis picks up the pace, sliding in and out, hips stroking faster and faster, until he’s really _fucking_ him, skin slapping against skin. Harry’s cheeks and chest are flushed, and his hair is wild, and Louis loves him like this, because while he’s at his most vulnerable he also has so much _trust_ for Louis. Harry tugs on Louis’ hair so he can kiss him, and he’s whining into his mouth, so _close_ and not lasting too long because it’s been _three fucking weeks._  


“Lou– I,” Harry spits out, and his eyes are wide and dark, and Louis nods at him where his hands are gripping Harry’s slim waist. Harry moves his hands that were scraping down Louis’ back to his cock, and he pumping relentlessly, fist skimming his shaft until it’s too much and when he comes he see stars.  


Louis is still fucking him when he comes down from his high, and he’s trying to squirm away from it because it _hurts_ , but Louis is grabbing his still sensitive cock and whispering in his ear, “Do you think you could do it again?”  


“Fuck,” Harry spits out, and he _wants_ it. He does. So he nods his head and lets Louis keep fucking him, lets him stroke his cock. The mix of pain and pleasure shooting through his body, making him jerk, but Louis is petting his curls and telling him that he’s doing good, and that’s what he wants. He wants that. Tears well up at the corners of his eyes, but they disappear when his cock is hard in Louis’ hand again, and he has to shut his eyes in a silent scream when Louis adjusts his angle and slams into his prostate.  


Louis comes first this time, slipping out and jerking Harry off, whispering dirty things into his ear until he spills over Louis’ hands with a wrack of the body and a small cry. “Fuck,” he says.  


Louis grins at him, nosing into his neck. “Yeah, fuck.”  


***  


Things kind of go back to normal, except not really. He thinks that the trust is gone. Harry finds routine, but becomes inexplicably sad. He’s always had lingering depression. Ever since he was sixteen years old and got his heart stomped on like a piece of gum that someone didn’t mean to step on and then spends all day trying to scrape it off. Has he come so low that he compares himself to a measly piece of gum? He can’t describe how it happens. One moment, he’s on top of the world, shining bright in every aspect, through himself, through his music, even vicariously through Louis and their shared smiles and soft kisses and warm bed. But then he’s being shoved off like a big brother shoves his kid sibling when he’s annoyed with him. So now he’s weeping on the ground, drained of color, and the only lingering red is high in his cheeks where he cries in the dirt. He feels worthless.  


It does not take long for Louis to notice after it gets bad. How could it not? Harry both loathes and loves that Louis can read him like a book. He can predict every word before the page is turned. But Harry has this grey enveloping him, tainting him, and for once, Louis can’t tell _why_. Harry’s not sure why either.  


They’re sitting in the warehouse, when Louis attempts to bring it up. Harry had not had the heart nor the energy to turn on the lights that make the room seem to glow, and in his eyes the quotes and art on the wall seemed colorless. Lifeless. Louis asks if he wanted him to do it. Harry says no. He does not want to see something that is not even _alive_ shine brighter than him. It makes his stomach churn and his wrists itch and the vein in his right temple thump once, so he can hear it drum through his ears and in his chest.  
Harry’s strumming on his guitar, and he can feel Louis watching him. He always can, like when he’s on stage and all he can see is the azure that brightens both his days and his dreams. But now, his gaze is making Harry shifty, all of chords coming off broken and out of key. “What?” he snaps, and immediately regrets it, because he looks up to a fallen, worried face. And he hates that, when someone _worries_ about him. He feels like he’s at fault for their stress. He doesn’t want to be at fault for anything.  


“Hey,” Louis murmurs, and it’s soft, like a fuzzy color that Harry cannot quite place. Maybe it’s red; its passion dulled. “What’s up?” The _with you_ is left off of his sentence, but it’s implied, and Harry knows it. It’s been three weeks since they’ve been home, and it’s gone steadily downhill since they had sex at noon and felt like they were floating in a subspace of bliss. Steadily, Harry smiled less. He cried more, usually when Louis wasn’t around. He laughed softer and less often. He didn’t crave the sex. And it wasn’t that he didn’t crave Louis, either. He always craves Louis, from the moment they met eyes at that bar after his show, he has. It’s the fact that he would be a bigger burden. That he would manage to fuck something up. He isn’t sure what it is, but he always manages to slip back into this – this funk. Zayn and Nate had given up on trying with him. Harry figures that everyone does eventually. He wonders how long it will take for Louis to give up on him, too.  


It’s not an answer to Louis’ question, but he asks anyway. “When will you give up on me?”  


Louis is caught off guard, like he isn’t expecting something so tragically dark to slip from his lips. Harry wonders where the light has gone. He likes to think that when he’s sad, his little star doesn’t light up at night. He wonders if Louis’ would, when Harry’s sad. “Give up on you?” he rasps, voice cracking, like he’s expecting a response. Harry doesn’t give him one. He has nothing to respond to; it’s merely a repeated question. “I’m not– Harry.” His eyes are a softened blue as he meets a stormy almost _grey_ , no longer the perky, sea green he wants to get lost in. “I’m not giving up on you. Why would I give up on you? Didn’t I tell you – before you left? I’m not going to leave you or abandon you.” He’s repeating words that Harry has heard before. Not just from Louis. From his family. His past.  


Harry rattled, holding Louis’ anxious blue, before crumbling into an earth-shattering shake and collapsing. His head falls onto his guitar, and he wracks with sobs that come from his core, shuddery and short, the ones that end after only a few minutes, but leave you breathless and cold for hours. Louis crawls over to him and takes the guitar from his grip, folding him into his arms and letting him cry on his shoulder. He says nothing. There’s nothing to say. He just rubs his back and kisses his hair and waits until he’s done. Harry doesn’t know when he’ll be done.  


When he’s finished crying his eyes are red and his breathing is heaving, and he pleads with Louis, “Can you love me now?” He sucks in a heavy breath that leaves him feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him. “We can talk later, just please, love me now.”  


Louis’ eyes soften even more, and Harry thinks they might melt. He lays Harry back and strokes his hair and taps a little rhythm onto his collarbone. He kisses him slow and only opens his eyes to say, “I do though, by the way, love you. I love you, Harry. I promise.” And they hadn’t said that, and Harry wonders if he would’ve said it if he wasn’t so broken and vulnerable. But he says it back anyway and lets Louis love him, holding him close and stroking his skin, kissing him everywhere. Louis sheds him of his clothes and makes him feel warm everywhere even though he wants to shiver with what he feels inside. He opens him up and licks into his mouth and loves him until he can’t love anymore, and they’re laying side by side, Harry’s eyes just as tearstained and feeling not at all loved.  


***  


It’s all his fault, really. Because Louis does love him. But he wonders where the _trust_ has gone, because all he feels is fear and loathing and emptiness. Louis loves him anyway. He wonders why. He wants to know when he turned into this black hole that sucks in all of the light and any last shred of joy. And it’s not that he likes being this way. He _grovels_ in it. He hates feeling powerless and useless and gross. He hates feeling like he’s pushing everyone away again, and he hates seeing Louis break every time he snaps at him. And there will be moments when the sunny part of him will burst through. The part that of him that Louis _knows_ , who he sees on stage and after concerts and in the kitchen when he’s cracking eggs onto a frying pan. Because sometimes Louis will crack a joke that Harry can’t help but laugh at and the smile that shows up on Louis face when Harry titters and giggles at whatever he said will make it worth it for a while.  


It’s a week later and they’re in their usual spot, and Harry’s one and only love of Walk the Moon is playing but it’s not making him happy. He puts on a depressing Coldplay song and lets Louis touch him gently. He hasn’t given up on him yet. That makes Harry trust a little more. He feels like he’s constantly fluctuating. He doesn’t like it. He wants to peak and steady. He wants to trust always. Louis cards his fingers through Harry’s hair and gets him to lay back so his head is in his lap. Harry can practically feel his tension and stress and sadness ooze out into Louis hands as he purrs. It’s black and disgusting, but it’s gone for the time being, so Louis kisses his forehead and asks him a question. “Can I fix you now?  “Fix me?” Harry asks, and he’s turning it over in his mind, the idea, like a soft thinking stone that’s as smooth as Louis’ skin in his fingertips. “How?”  


“I think,” Louis starts, and his lips are moving against Harry’s forehead where he’s got his hair pushed up so he can feel his warmth and his skin. “I think I have to start with you loving me, too. You letting me love you. And finding out what makes you sad. I don’t like to see you sad. You’re not like this, darling. You’re my shining star.” He grins against Harry’s forehead, and Harry snorts because he knows Louis is corny, but that is some of his worst work.  


“Cute, babe,” Harry says, and he feels Louis smile grow wider against him because he’s _joking_ and he hasn’t joked in weeks. He feels the color spread into Harry’s cheeks. “I do love you. I promise I do. I was just upset and anxious that day, and I–”  


“Shhh,” Louis murmurs, and it makes a funny vibration against Harry’s face so he giggles. Louis smiles again and leans up, sidling next to him and tucking himself under Harry’s arm. “I believe you. So our love is mutual. This is progress.” Harry laughs again and starts to feel safe. Still sad, but loved and safe. Louis is right, he thinks. Progress.  


***  


Orange. Orange is stimulation and determination. Red branches from orange so Harry likes to think that he’s well on his way. It takes a while. And sometimes Harry shines brighter than he thinks he ever has, and he’ll twinkle like that god damned star on his ceiling. But other times his light will flicker and he will burst, but Louis will always be there to hold him close and keep him warm and _love_ him. And Harry loves him back.  
He’s still shaky, when he finds out the news. Still shaky. And it’s kind of perfect news, and it’s unexpected, and Harry thinks it’s just what he needs. He gets a call, and he’s groggy today. Cranky. And it’s 10:30 in the morning, and he doesn’t want to talk to _anyone_ , but he picks it up because Louis’ face and name are flashing on his phone and he groans out, “Hello?”  


“Harry!” Louis says, and he’s just finished a show, and he’s always _hyper_ afterwards. He’s a ball of life that Harry revolves around, and sometimes he’s the brightness that he needs to keep himself going.  


“Morning, Lou.”  


“Morning, sunshine,” he chirps, and Harry thinks that he’s always brighter after he gets called that. “I’ve got good news!”  


“Really?”  


“Yes!”  


There’s a silent pause, and they’re both waiting.  


“Care to share?” Harry asks, and he doesn’t mean it, but he knows what’s coming.  


“You rhymed!”  


Harry laughed, because he saw that coming. He did. “I know! Now tell me your news, you git.”  


“Next weekend you and I are going to America, and we’re gonna go see _Walk the Moon_ and fuck in a fancy hotel and you’re gonna be fucking happy, and those are your only options. No questions asked. I’m coming over later so you can kiss me in thanks. Love you, bye!”  
And the line goes dead before Harry has the chance to say a thing, so naturally, with the inner little girl he has, he lays back on his bed only to kick his feet and squeal out of pure happiness because he’s going to see Walk the Moon. He claps his hands together and sighs at the fact that it’s only Tuesday, but this is progress, he thinks. This makes him happy, and he knows Louis will be at his side during and after and Liam told him the other day that they’ve got offers coming in since their tour about being signed to labels, and yeah, things are looking up, he thinks. Up, up, up.  


***  


Harry took his passport when he left home. And he regularly got it updated, too, in case he ever decided to run away from London, too. He’s thankful for that when his hand is curled into Louis’ as they stand in line for security at the Heathrow airport. Harry’s a little breathless with all the excitement, and he’s only left the country once, so this is _big_. Louis is sending him this megawatt smile that shines every happy color imaginable, and when they’re on the plane they put up the arm rest and sit close, sharing each other’s warmth and colors and spilling stories back and forth like they were meeting for the first time.  


It’s nice, Harry thinks. He doesn’t think it’s quite progress. He thinks it’s his peak. He’s steady. Louis kisses him on the nose and falls asleep on his shoulder. He likes steady. He might be starting to glow again.  


***  


The flight is long and boring, but Harry’s warm the entire time. He wants to go everywhere, when he sees the city, and while they’re only going to be there for three nights, Louis kisses him in the warm city air and promises to take him back one day. The hotel is fancy like Louis said, and Harry thinks he’s being spoiled, but he feels electric even after such a long day, so they drop of their stuff, shower, and explore what Louis knows of New York.  
Harry thinks the city is lovely. He wonders if it’s because they’re surrounded by colors of every type; the blurring cars, the shining buildings, the people who all radiate something different. He really, really likes New York. Louis doesn’t let go of his hand for the whole night.  


When they get back they fall into the fluffy king sized bed and sleep, but it’s 5:30 in the morning when Harry wakes up because jetlag has him all messed up, but he draws open the curtains that leads to a balcony, and there’s a soft breeze coming in through the door when he yanks it open. There are already people and cars moving about, but the sun is rising over the city and casting light on all of the buildings. He thinks it’s one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen, the sky all colorful with pink and yellow and red and orange and blue, and when Louis wraps his arms around his waist from behind, touch soft and comforting, Harry decides, yes, he’s definitely happy.  


They go for a walk in central park and eat at a lovely cafe that Harry keeps a napkin from with the logo written on it all nicely, and he’s not always sure where he is but Louis is tugging him around the bits he remembers from his several visits, but he likes the mystery. Harry thinks it’s interesting, because how can he be lost in a city where he didn’t know where he is at the start? He’s got his guiding light, anyway. They wander a lot, and go into shoppes but don’t buy anything. The arm is warm and not in the overbearing way. It’s still early in June, and the heat wave has yet to crash over the tristate area. He doesn’t know how it happens, but suddenly they’re getting a pretzel to share from the vendor on the street as they walk to the concert hall, but, _holy shit_ , it’s just a few minutes away and Harry’s in _love_ with this band.  


Louis swings his hand happily in his, and they brush against the denim of his jean shorts and the softness of his cotton shirt. Louis tugs at Harry’s shirt with a funky pattern and tells him how he doesn’t understand how he’s wearing jeans, but Harry laughs at him and drinks the rest of their lemonade in spite of being teased. There’s a line outside the venue when they get there, but they don’t really mind. They talk and laugh and don’t have to worry about kissing once because it’s New York, and they can do whatever they want.  


Inside, it’s like an explosion, Harry thinks. Everything is just color, color everywhere. The thing about Walk the Moon concerts, Harry learns, is that you paint your face. Everyone, _everyone_ does it. So Harry gets some paints and makes red and yellow dots around Louis’ eyes and one on his nose just because he can. Louis makes Harry red and turquoise so he pops, and he feels brighter than the sun.  


And the opening act is good, really good, but Harry orders beers and they drink them too fast, and he’s fucking happy and horny and he has this undeniable burst of life and spontaneity running through him, so he drags Louis into the bathroom of this dirty, perfect venue that he’s never been to before and drops to his knees because he _can_. And Louis laughs him, but his chuckles die in his throat when Harry sucks the head of his cock into his mouth. He mouthes at his shaft and takes him as deep as he can without making his eyes water because he doesn’t want to screw up his paints. It’s rushed and messy, but Louis looks down at him with pretty blue eyes that look even brighter with paint surrounding them, and he suckles on the head and presses little kitten licks to it because he wants to see him come before he goes out there and grinds with him to his favorite band to a song about shivering when he gets close, so he _makes_ him.  


And when they stumble out of the bathroom they’re laughing, and Louis is a little boneless, but the band is walking onto the stage and there’s a bunch of people around him who are covered in colors not just because of the paint, so when they start singing about their lover staying shotgun until the day they die, Harry thinks that it sounds pretty damn great.


End file.
